"they" kept scrambling,
scuttling their way back
into the asylum...

   like there was no
retraction...

   videos and response
videos...

      and then...
    someone left something,
and there was no
comment section...
  
and it read,
as a litany worth of all
that was not pop
via the dada movement...

arthur cravan
    jacques riguat
     julien torma
          jacques vache
   (jack...
  jackson...
   why not: ja' que!
           huh?)

and then the whole, "thing"
imploded
into a high school
schoolyard brawl...
scuffle...
   whatever you call
throwing an orange
at someone's head...
playing the lottery...
will it hit him...
or will it miss...
  a bit like three
beavis & butthead
loons
staying out too late,
forgetting to leave
a park...
jumping over
the fence,
and the fat one...
jumps...
  then gets "hanged",
by a ******...
on the park fence...
and you're wondering:
how many more seconds...
before we release this
budgerigar...
from an abstract fence...
when he's still...
a fat boy,
dangling on a park fence...
yapping like
some ugly duckling...
dangling...
      from a "noose"
of his underwear
being caught on a
vlad the impaler safe-keep?

  **** it, let's all be
as pedantic as: moi...
   and sift through
what's,
i assure you: to come.

life was so pure...
back when,
you'd huddle in for a friday
night...
and never take gaming
seriously...

  gaming would be akin
to reviving the understanding
of chess...
or mahjong...
   you'd spend
a "solipsistic" saturday
morning...
not worrying about homework
until sunday night...
and...
you'd congregate,
go to the shopping-centre...
and buckaroo
the afternoon away...

     like now...
me: eyes: void / blank...
good thing i didn't learn anything
about leaving comments,
or engaging in:
a comment section...
i'm all pro democracy...
but...
  comment sections, per se?
that's worse than a tweet...
given the current twitter
debacle...
   never used it...
moved to gab.com...
huh? i don't know how
to use that...
give me a ******* hammer
and a nail
and a book by heidegger:
sure...
    we can make that work...

like, i wanted to leave
the schoolyard at some point...
but then the ****
just kept nagging me
back into a mafia-esque
demand for cipher-zunge...

you know why comment
sections ****?
i remember the days
of the microsoft chat-rooms,
the m.s.n. hybrids
of social media...

        whatever this is...
       it is, whatever that was,
and neither,
will ever meet.

p.s.
      anger...
isn't that something worth
pacifying with copious
     amounts of ms. amber?
****... better buy
a camera and a mic.
and record myself saying
something:
that i can't quiet, literally,
think through.